Christmas at 221b
by Robin Straker
Summary: John's all up in the Christmas Spirit and Sherlock's being grumpy. Kind of a load of festive, Johnlock one-shots that can be read separately but fit together. Rated T for swearing and sexual references.
1. Decorating

"No, John, I am not." Sherlock murmured from behind his newspaper.

John looked up from where he was hanging Christmas decorations on the plastic tree and singing along to the festive songs on the radio as he did so.

"What?" He asked, confused.

Sherlock sighed and folded his paper onto his lap. "No, I am not _hanging up my stockings on my wall_, as you just asked me. Firstly because I do not even own _one_ pair of stockings, secondly because the idea of hanging long socks on a wall is simply preposterous and thirdly because…" he paused, trying to think of something sarcastic to end his rant with, "it makes dreadful holes in the walls." He finished, smiling as his head twitching slightly as it always did when he finished making a point. Instead of waiting for John's reaction he picked up his paper and continued reading, pretending he wasn't interested.

John laughed. "It's just a Christmas song, Sherlock. And anyway, what do you care about putting holes in our walls?" He said, thrusting an arm out in gesture to the yellow smiley face almost completely obliterated by bullet holes.

Sherlock ignoring him, John sighed and went back to singing along to the radio quietly.

"_To the fairest he get's sober for a day…so here it is, Merry Christmas…everybody's having fun…"_

Sherlock chuckled and muttered something under his breath.

"What now?" John asked, irritated.

"It's just…sounds like your sister, that's all. Although, I doubt she'll be sober for Christmas, not with her divorce papers coming through." Sherlock replied from behind his newspaper.

John threw the plastic bauble onto the floor in a rage. "Right. That's it." He muttered angrily, striding across to Sherlock and grabbing his paper off of him. Sherlock froze, keeping his hands in the position they had been holding the paper in, and slowly rolled his eyes upwards, eyebrows raised, as he looked at John. "Is this that so called Christmas Spirit you keep insisting I'm supposed to have, John dear? Because, quite frankly, it doesn't seem all too enjoyable to me."

"Shut up. That was below the belt, that jibe at my sister, and you know it." He snapped.

Sherlock sniffed as he stood up. "You don't normally complain when I go down there." He murmured.

John bit his lip, trying not to smile. "You're such a scrooge, Sherly. It's the festive season. Stop grumbling and try and have fun. Or do _high-functioning sociopaths _not understand 'fun'?"

Sherlock glared at him. "We're celebrating the birth of a fictional character, John. You weren't like this for Harry Potter's birthday. Well," he paused, remembering John's insistence of them cosplaying all day – and night – last July 31st. He, of course, was Snape, due to his apparently unrehearsed impressions of Alan Rickman when he had been forced to watch the films with John, and his natural lack of interest with everything.

Smiling slightly, he wandered into the kitchen and inspected one of his experiments. "_Anyway_, is Harry coming to dinner tomorrow or not? I need to know."

John frowned. "What does it matter to you? I'm not letting you cook." He answered, noticing Sherlock eyeing up the turkey and trimmings, obviously working out if there was enough, which of course there would be, even if they invited Mycroft and Lestrade as well as Mrs Hudson and Molly, and Harry if she would return his calls, because Sherlock only picked at the meat and pushed his vegetables around the plate like a toddler.

Sherlock looked up, pouting slightly.

"Why not? Cooking's just practical science." He whined.

John sighed, smiling. "Exactly, Sherlock. You'd make it into a science experiment, you'd lace the turkey with cyanide and record how long it takes us to realise you poisoned us…" He trailed off as he saw Sherlock's expression drop. He was hurt. Actually _hurt_ by John's words. "Oh, I'm sorry darling." He cooed, pulling the thin consulting detective into a tight hug.

"Alright…John…I…can't really…breathe well….when you…squeeze me ….so tight…." He gasped. John dropped his arms and brushed the creases out of his purple shirt.

"Okay, compromise. We cook together?" He offered, smiling. Sherlock paused for a moment, then nodded. John smiled and grabbed his hand, pulling him over to the sofa. He switched the TV on and listened intently to the weather forecast.

"John, you know that's just a load of-"

"Ssh, Sherlock, they're talking about snow!" He murmured in excitement, pressing one hand against Sherlock's mouth and the other grasping his hand, squeezing it.


	2. Snowing

**A/N I'm so sorry for not updating in ages, I keep meaning to update this and the other story, but I've also got another in my head waiting to be written and I've started 2 A/S levels a year early so I'm busy with those, and work experience, and resits, and I've been ill. I'm so sorry! I'll try and update more in future! It's not much, but here's chapter 2! Reviews are greatly appreciated, and I'll do my best to do any requests you guys have! (as long as they stay T rated, I'm so awkward to do M. :P )**

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Wake up!" John said shaking the sleeping consulting detective.

"John," Sherlock said calmly, eyes still closed, "do you realise how hard it is for me to get to sleep?" He paused for a moment, John opened his mouth to reply but he carried on regardless. "Very hard. Now, unless there has been at least a level seven case or Anderson has been fatally injured in some way, you may want to rethink your actions."

John paused a moment, then, not able to bear the excitement any longer, he shook Sherlock again.

"But Sherlock, look outside, it's snowing!" He stopped shaking Sherlock and ran to his window, throwing open the curtains and gesturing wildly at the bright white outside.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tighter at the sudden light and rolled over, grumbling as he pulled the duvet over his head.

"Come on, Sherlock, look! Just look! Isn't it wonderful?" John said, practically skipping over to Sherlock, jumping on his bed and pulling him out.

"John…" Sherlock moaned, trying to resist. He opened his eyes, looked out the window and sighed. "Great."

John frowned. "Oh, please tell you you're not one of those people who hate snow?"

Sherlock got up, grabbed some clothes and headed for the bathroom.

"Alright, I won't."

John sighed and chased after him, leaning against the locked bathroom door.

"But Sherlock, it's Christmas! And it's snowing! Didn't you always wish for a white Christmas when you were younger?" From the other side of the bathroom door John could hear the whirr of the electric toothbrush turn off.

"Nope." Came Sherlock's voice, muffled slightly from the towel he was rubbing against his face. He emerged minutes later, dressed in his year round garb of a shirt and trousers, and held John by the shoulders, staring in his eyes.

"John, we are both grown men. Yes, it is Christmas Day. Yes, it is snowing. Calm down. Merry Christmas." He smiled briefly, kissed him lightly on the cheek and embraced him. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and smiled. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."


	3. Dressing Up

**A/N apologies again for the slow update! It's my best friend's birthday coming up (i started this as a prompt from her in return for a favour a while back) so I thought I'd upload another chapter for her. Inspired by a rather interesting Omegle RP i had last night...**

**Happy Birthday Emily! xx**

**Also, still up for suggestions - i have taken the ones given already into account, and will be writing chapters on them later, when they fit into the story don't worry!**

**Reviews are like early Christmas presents!**

"John, what _are_ you wearing?" Sherlock's voice was dry and judging, as he looked up from his paper at the kitchen table.

"It's a father Christmas costume, Sherlock. I volunteered us to help out at the kids ward at Bart's this morning, seeing as we're not going to church." He grinned and twirled clumsily in the cumbersome outfit. Sherlock couldn't help smiling slightly as John came to a dizzied halt, stumbling forward and grabbing at his armchair.

"And what do you expect me to dress up as, one of your elves?" He asked, grinning and raising his pitch in mock excitement. John raised an eyebrow and cocked his head condescendingly, holding up a fuzzy costume. "Don't be stupid. You're going to be _Rudolf_."

Sherlock, who had, idiotically, taken that moment to take a sip of his tea, spat it out.

"_What?! _You _must_ be joking. I am _not_ wearing a reindeer costume."

John sighed.

"Sherlock, please. It's only a few hours. It's for sick children, and it's Christmas."

Now it was Sherlock's time to sigh. He stood up.

"I don't see why you can keep using the bloody _season _as a reason for me to do things for you."

John chuckled, remembering their activities the previous night.

"Sherlock," he said, like he was giving a child an ultimatum which, really, he was, "either you get into this costume, or I get you in it for you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest.

"You'll have to strip me." He said calmly, copying John's condescending head-cock.

John grinned and giggled.

"I was hoping you'd say something like that!" He dropped the costume and pounced on Sherlock.

It all happened so quickly. Sherlock's face fell as he saw John leap at him, and before he had time to even register what was happening, he was pinned down on the floor.

"John!" He shrieked as he watched, aghast, as he sat on him, unbuttoning his shirt. He struggled under John, but somehow the little ex-army doctor man managed to hold him down.

"You forget, Sherlock, I had to operate on men twice your strength without anaesthetics." He said, moving down to unzip his trousers.

"John! Please!" Sherlock whined, pouting at him as he struggled. "Why can't we just have a nice relaxing Christmas morning together?"

John scoffed as he pulled off Sherlock's trousers and grabbed the Reindeer jumpsuit.

"Oh, come on Sherlock, it doesn't take a consulting detective to know you were searching the newspaper just now for homicides."

Sherlock quietened at that, concentrating on making it as hard as possible for John to pull the costume up his legs. But it was too late, John was already done with the legs, and had turned Sherlock over, face down, to push his arms through the sleeves and zip it up at the back – where Sherlock couldn't reach it. When he was done, he stood up and pulled a sulking Sherlock up too.

"Come on," he said jovially, pulling him to John's bedroom, "time for face paint!"

And so it happened that on Christmas morning, John and Sherlock could be found, in full costume, handing out donated gifts to the children in the wards of St. Bartholomew's hospital, much to the delight of the children, John, and the London paparazzi.

But not Sherlock.

_Definitely_ not Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

"John, no." Sherlock stated, before returning to his newspaper, after John had dumped a pile of christmas cards, enveloped and a sparkly silver gel pen on the table in front of him.

"Oh come on, Sherlock, don't be a child. I have piles of paperwork to do today and you don't have any cases to be working on. Please? I've even made a list of people to write them to, see? There's not even that many." H e said, waving a list in front of Sherlock's face. Sherlock snatched it, balled it up and threw it over his shoulder. John gave him a light punch in the arm before retrieving the paper ball, sighing. "Sherlock, please. You know I have the typical illegible doctor's handwriting, and yours is so cursive and interesting and readable. It'll also be nice for you to be writing the ones to my friends and family, you know, because we're together and everything? It'll be sweet. And it'll really mean a lot to me..." John finished, smiling sweetly at him before kissing him lightly on the cheek.

Sherlock sighed.

"Fine. But they're a waste of time and money."

John shook his head and put the kettle on, preparing for a lecture.

"Go on then, I bet you're just _dying _to explain." He said, exasperated.

"The approximate time spent per person on choosing Christmas cards is , on average, half an hour. In this time they will visit and revisit roughly five different shops, pondering over cost, designs and size." John opened his mouth to object but Sherlock raised a hand to silence him.

"You, on the other hand, took less than five minutes. You simply went to the shop you knew would sell charity cards and picked up Help For Heroes sets which were made from sustainable paper."

John sighed and nodded,

"Very good, Sherlock. _Now _will you write the cards?"

Sherlock muttered something under his breath and opened the first pack. John smiled to himself and poured the boiling water into two mugs of hot chocolate.

"You do realise this sustainable paper rubbish makes you a hypocrite, right?" Sherlock said, as John handed him his drink. John glanced at the pile of cards Sherlock had already written, smiling to himself that it had taken the exact number he had mentally estimated before Sherlock's next attack.

"Hmm?" John asked, hardly listening, sitting across from Sherlock and beginning his paperwork.

"Yes." He began, unaware of John's vast disinterest in what he had to say. "You see, if you really cared about the amount of trees cut down for such stupid reasons as _Christmas cards_, you wouldn't have bought any in the first place. You would have sent your seasonal greetings and well wishes by email, you see?"

"Mmmhmm." John hummed, scribbling away.

"You're not even listening!" Sherlock whined, glaring at John across the table.

"Honestly, it's like living with a child..." John muttered, before looking up at the cards Sherlock had written.

"Look, if I was a child, you'd be at the top of the sex offenders register." Sherlock retorted.

John sighed. "Yes, very funny Sherlock. Look, you've already done most of them. Finish the rest off and we'll go out and post them, okay? I'll buy you some nicotine patches or something if you're good."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded, returning to the cards muttering something about how much of a "patronising buffoon" John was.


End file.
